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a guide on how to survive socialite nyc

hi. i'm emma. i shifted to my better current reality at seventeen where i live on the upper east side, my mom's a billionaire, my dad's kind of royalty-adjacent, and i'm the kind of girl who says "i have to study" but don't actually ever study.

someone asked me to make a survival guide for new york socialite culture, and i did. but now i'm rereading it and i think i accidentally wrote an exposé. i don't know what happened. i blacked out. i woke up and there were ten thousand words about the whitney board and custom-moulded ski boots and my fake boyfriend named marco. this was supposed to be gossip girl meets succession, and somehow it turned into joan didion gets eaten alive by her own cotillion class. i'm sick and i'm dying and please don't look at me.

anyway. take this as a guide. or a warning. or a cry for help. i'm definitely killing myself over this. ok bye.

section i . appearance

you're not trying to be beautiful. you're trying to be "correct-looking". you need to look like you live inside a fridge built by dior and lit by a tolomeo lamp. your skin should glow in the dark but in a non-radioactive, genetically superior sort of way. if you're doing it right, no one compliments you. they just say, "you look well." and that means something. it means you've been seen and passed inspection. not praised, not envied, confirmed.

hair colour : blondes get treated like family money. brunettes get mistaken for pr girls until proven otherwise. redheads (natural only) get suspected of being from somewhere interesting. the kind of interesting that means your grandmother maybe wore galliano and drank at indochine with madonna. dark roots are only acceptable if they've been there since easter brunch at the plaza. don't dye it platinum unless you're in the lvmh bloodline. don't balayage. don't ombré. don't do anything you saw on pinterest. your hair needs to look like it's been this way since you were four and your au pair gave you a haircut with gold scissors. the correct answer when someone asks what you do to it is "nothing really." your shampoo is unavailable in the u.s. and comes in an opaque bottle wrapped in brown paper from a pharmacy in geneva.

face : everyone is pretty. you need to look congenitally expensive. clean skin, no highlighter, not even for the birkin gala. your brows should not be threaded. they should just be like that. your lashes are never fake. your blush is from exhaustion, not makeup. your under-eyes are hollow from birth and elite suffering. use the drunk elephant moisturiser but put it in an avene bottle. no contour. no bright lip. your lipstick is the same shade as your tongue. your foundation is mixed by a dermatologist who doesn't believe in sunscreen. your beauty mark is real. your cheekbones are not filler, they're "genetic."

body : you don't need to be skinny. you need to look "expensively maintained". if your thighs touch but your pilates instructor knows your dog's name, you're fine. your arms are long. your back is straight. your posture is from equestrian camp, not yoga. you don't run. you get walked by your trainer. no muscle definition. no fake tan. you are vitamin d deficient in a $900 tennis skirt. your legs are bruised from skiing, not clumsiness. you own two pairs of trainers: one for walking, one for looking like you walk.

when to wear designer : never in a way that's obvious. your hermès should look inherited. your dior should be vintage (even if it's not). if you're wearing chanel, it better be archival and you better be with your grandmother. never wear logos unless they're ironic, and even then, only if your parents own property in provence. the only monogram allowed is stitched into the inside pocket. not even your driver should know you're rich. it should just be assumed. if it zips, it better have been tailored. if it buttons, it better be mother-of-pearl. if you wear a tee shirt, it should be hanro. if you wear sunglasses, they should be old céline. the only exception to the logo rule is a goyard tote with your initials. but only if it's filthy.

the optics :

looking rich = old money.

looking cultured = foundation grants.

looking interesting = childhood trauma + niche education + subtle jewellery.

ideally, you're all three.

but if you have to choose: go with cultured. rich is obvious. cultured is strategic. interesting is what gets you profiled in air mail. interesting is why the chair of the whitney board remembers your name. interesting is why you were asked to read at the pen america gala even though you don't write.

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section i (and a half) . location

fifth avenue (upper east side only) : if you live above 60th and below 96th, you're in the golden rectangle. this is the museum mile stretch. your doorman will be asleep but he'll still remember your bat mitzvah dress. you don't take the subway from here, you exit the city. buildings here come with plaque-level pedigree. if your building has a name, not a number, you're already winning. your neighbour is on the board of the frick. the florist downstairs knows not to wrap in brown. this is where your mother did her christmas shopping at barneys before it closed. you get sent the new year's schedule for the philharmonic by name.

park avenue : if you say you live on park and don't clarify east 96th or south 30th, people will assume you mean the correct part: between 60th and 92nd. this is legacy socialite land. your grandfather had a secretary. your parents met at a squash match. you eat cottage cheese and pineapple for breakfast and call it wellness. everyone has the same doorman portrait from their childhood: red vest, gold buttons, white gloves, first name basis. your apartment is large but cold. rugs from sotheby's. kitchen never used. the smell of your building is bergamot and chlorine. no one wears shoes inside. you say things like "oh, i think she was in my cotillion class."

central park west : used to be weird. now it's "stable." it's the address you give when you don't want people to google your last name. you have taste. your parents are both remarried. the living room has a view of the reservoir and a de kooning. you own three dogs and a therapist. you've had dinner with a gallery owner. your friends' parents have all written memoirs. your friends' memoirs were published before age 25. this side of the park is for people who fund ballets but never attend them. your building has a doorman named larry. he has seen you through every era of your life. you still cry when you see him.

central park south : this is the purgatory between hedge fund dads and finance guys who think they're philosophers. your building is sleek. there's no dust. the fridge talks. you're new here. you're rich but (sadly) you're not trusted. your kitchen has smart lighting but no knives. people here drink negronis in blackout sunglasses and pretend to read the economist. there's no art on the walls because the interior designer said it would "overwhelm the space." you have an investment property in lisbon. your girlfriend's name is genevieve and she's "between agencies."

upper west side : sweet. proper. unchanging. your dad is in publishing. your mom is a therapist. your apartment has books on every surface. the hallway smells like antique wood and dog. your oven's broken. no one cares. the window sills are wide enough for your cat and your emotional crises. you still get bagels from h&h and take them to riverside to eat on a bench. you applied to columbia and got in. you didn't go. your clothes are unironed but made of cashmere. your rich is subconscious. there's a poster for the new group theatre on the door. your parents met at a rally. they still go to lectures.

upper east side : not to be classist but this is the final boss. not because it's hard to get in, but because once you're here, you never leave. you have a driver named salvador. you have a doorman who fought in a war. your mother has not cooked since 1987. you get your hair cut by a woman named giancarla who doesn't advertise. you were in cotillion. you have a junior board. you've had the same family lawyer since you were born. you've never written your own check. you think going downtown is "a treat." your friends live within a ten block radius and you all eat lunch at sant ambroeus pretending not to.

west village : this is curated bohemia. your mom's a sculptor and your dad used to be famous. your godparents are in theatre. your apartment smells like parchment and good weed. you still use a landline. you never use google maps. your life is full of corner bookstores and 18-year-olds from new jersey who think you're mythical. your floors creak. your cat has an agent. you've dated a writer. you've dated a painter. you've dated a waiter who told you he was a painter. you own records. not vinyl. records. this is where you say "i just grew up around artists" like you didn't go to dalton.

downtown (tribeca, soho, nolita, chinatown, etc) : this is status coded in reverse. you pretend not to care while spending twelve grand a month. you have an ice bath. you wear jnco jeans and a $500 shirt. you've been to art basel but not for art. you own one suit and it's margiela. your idea of a splurge is a $90 candle. your building used to be a button factory. now it has a pool on the roof. you don't talk to your neighbours. one of them is a dj. another is a war criminal's daughter. everyone has an aura. yours is grey. your therapist told you that means grounded. your girlfriend sells resin art. your boyfriend is in berlin.

brooklyn : ONLY carroll gardens. only if inherited. only if your grandmother still lives upstairs. otherwise, you're pretending. the people here have opinions about olive oil and four kinds of salt. you use a tote bag your friend screen printed. you only go into manhattan for doctor's appointments or your godchild's choir recital. your rent is fake. your clothes are all wool. your wine is always open. if you have a backyard, you're a demigod. you have friends who've moved upstate. you judge them. you get coffee from the same man every day and he calls you miss. he doesn't know your name, for som reason that's how you like it.

the real secret : co-ops. you want a board. you want restrictions. you want to have to know someone to get in. if your building has a concierge, you're either french or new here. if you live in brooklyn, it must be carroll gardens, and it must be inherited. if you rent, lie. say it's your godmother's pied-à-terre. say she's an editor at large for t: the new york times style magazine. say it was passed down through divorce, not death.

what your building says about you :

740 park = you were born in the wrong one but with the right lawyers.

one beacon court = you're nouveau riche but hiding it well.

15 central park west = your parents are on the board of the met.

any new development with "tower" in the name = leave. go back to miami.

the elevator should be brass. the lobby should be beige. the staff should have known you since you were small enough to be carried in a burberry baby sling. the security guard should call your mother "ma'am" and you "honey."

floor plan flags :

pre-war = elite.

post-war = insurance money.

floor-through = fine.

duplex = trust fund.

maisonette = you're weirdly connected and possibly european.

penthouse = new money but trying.

anything with "open concept" = west coast interloper.

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section ii . routine

you are never busy. you are booked. your calendar includes lunch with your father, your mother, art auctions, pilates at reform club, and a three-hour window to wander madison in silence. your days are carved into ritual: the same cashmere sweater, the same black coffee, the same twenty minutes sitting in the lobby of the carlyle pretending to wait for someone. you own a franklin calendar. you own a montblanc pen. you never ask for wifi. you already know the password.

before 8am : your macrobiotic chef makes you a green juice. you only drink half. your vitamins come in sachets from a doctor who doesn't advertise. you read the ft weekend in your mom's bathrobe. you do pilates in your mother's solarium. your skincare is nine steps and none of them are from sephora. you take calls on speakerphone in the bath. your toothbrush is swiss. your towels have your initials. you journal. you write thank-you cards. you reply to three emails. one of them is from your trust administrator.

after 8pm : dinner at casa cruz or omakase at masa (only if you're being courted). otherwise . . . late drinks at bemelmans. your table is the one in the corner, under the portrait of ludwig bemelmans' dog. if it's taken, you leave. you are not on the list at cathédrale. you don't want to be. you don't go to equinox. your gym has no signage. your doorman calls the elevator for you. you own pyjamas with piping. they are ironed. you read on a chaise. you only wear cotton at home. you answer no calls after 9 unless it's from your mother or your lawyer.

where you never go :

equinox

any place with a prix fixe menu and instagram account

any rooftop without a legacy donor

restaurants with tiktok in the reviews

dumbo

the whitney gift shop

times square (unless your cousin is in a broadway revival)

the standard

jack's wife freda

any café with neon signage

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section iii . networking

school : i had scripted in my own private school, st lazarus, but you can go to chapin. or spence. or brearley. if you don't, you don't bring it up. your mom tried to get you into dalton but your father said no because of the art teacher scandal in 2012. your friends are legacy kids. your enemies are legacy kids. your ex-boyfriend is a legacy kid who got into harvard by playing squash and writing an essay on cicero. you've known each other since that nursery in the carlyle. you've all taken a photo on the met steps. you've all blacked out at the same house in east hampton. you've all cried in the same powder room at the four seasons.

you only socialise across schools when you're forced to. you pretend not to know who got into yale or harvard or oxford early. you've cried at the nypl. you've been grounded for getting caught sneaking out of a deb ball. you went to model un once. it wasn't for you but you think your boyfriend is about to take over and become a dictator. your notes app has two kinds of people: those who sat next to you at cello recitals, and those who married your godfather.

trust fund friend groups : you know the difference between old money (soft voice, bad jeans, two homes in nantucket) and new money (veneers, cashmere joggers, the words "start-up"). the trick is to be old money in temperament but new money in liquidity. you summer in sagaponack but you winter in switzerland. you know when to split the bill and when to pretend not to see it. your group chat is called something obscure. there is always someone in it who's a kennedy cousin. one of them tried to kiss you at ski camp. your best friend's trust is bigger than yours. you've never spoken about it.

legacy circles : talk about horses, not brands. never correct someone on pronunciation unless they say "hermès" like it's a venereal disease. don't name-drop unless it's a baroness. remember who summered in sardinia vs. st. barths. know which parents got indicted. know which parents bought the judge. always act bored by scandal. always pretend your parents are normal. always say "oh i think we met at the greco-roman exhibit" even if you didn't. never bring up college unless it's to say you left.

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section iv . reputation

rich girls are on the list. wealthy girls own the building. important girls don't explain. they're just known. you are not a brand. you are a rumour. you are the girl who cried during the metropolitan opera but not at your own party. you are known because you never speak on important matters online. your last tagged photo was three months ago and you were holding a cigarette and a copy of the golden notebook. it was taken by someone who's now at columbia for film. you left the party before midnight. you didn't say goodbye.

you are trusted because you don't post on tiktok that has below 500k followers. you are invited because you don't ask. your last scandal wasn't even public. you've ghosted every publication that tried to profile you. you said no to vogue. you said no to tavi. you said yes to nothing.

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section v . dating

first rule : date like there's a will being written.

second rule : most of the time, don't date at all. it's embarrassing. it's traceable. it's how scandals start.

there's a difference between a real boyfriend and a power arrangement. a real boyfriend carries your bag and makes fun of your therapist and remembers your cat's birthday. a power arrangement is when you date a venture capital heir so your dad can get invited to that investor dinner in geneva. you know the one. the one with the truffle risotto and the private quartet.

finance bros : acceptable between the ages of 17 and 19. don't make my mistake and date a non-homicidal-patrick-bateman-guy. don't even think about it. they must be reformed. they must be family-adjacent. they must be afraid of your mother. goldman > evercore > lazard. no citadel boys. no softbank freaks. you can date someone who did a summer at bridgewater, but only if he cried about it later.

art boys : fine in theory. dangerous in execution. he must not be trying. he must have inherited his gallerist grandmother's house in tribeca and only show in basements. if he says the word "residency" and means it sincerely, RUN. if he was at your cousin's RISD graduation in 2021, he's fair game.

older men : proceed carefully. he must be already-divorced. he must be the one who offers you a ride and never the one who asks for one. he can call you "kid" but only if you once made him cry during a backgammon game in east hampton. you must have a point of exit, a fake emergency contact, and a backup dinner invite ready. if you end up in air mail or curbed, you did it wrong and in less than three years he will be cheating on you .

( and . . . ) how to date someone older without becoming a story : never be alone with him two nights in a row. always say you're "not looking for anything serious." never show up in a dress you wore in high school. and when he tries to show you his collection of rothkos, ask if he's ever read any female authors who weren't in his divorce deposition. don't be his publicist. don't be his therapist. don't be his pr plan.

how to reject an heir without it becoming a scandal : smile. say you're flattered. say your schedule's a mess right now. say you're seeing someone in geneva (you're not). if he pushes, invoke your mother. say she's very protective and doesn't approve of his politics. if he still pushes, leak his trust size to the girl who runs the party list at the standard.

timing :

never date in spring (too many engagements)

never date in september (school chaos)

never date during tax season (obvious)

only date in november if you're ready to spend christmas at his family estate in montauk

only date in summer if you've already been to his family's place in capri and didn't find anything weird in the guesthouse

first date script :

no alcohol unless you know where it was sourced

always pretend you're allergic to something obscure

order the second most expensive thing on the menu

ask him what his family's position on offshore accounts is

leave before dessert

if he survives, you may text back.

boyfriend hierarchy :

real boyfriend (emotional support, security detail, hot)

soft-launch boyfriend (for optics only, must be good at standing near you)

trial heir (wealthy but mid)

scandal buffer (older, boring, strategic)

ghosted ex who still keeps you on his private flight list

and finally : if he doesn't know your favourite book, your mother's maiden name, and your preferred florist, he's not your boyfriend. he's a liability. date accordingly.

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section vi . travelling

there's a way to go. and there's a way to leave. you never go. you're leaving. very different verbs. no one should know where until you've already landed. no itinerary posts. no time stamps. just a quiet flick of the wrist and the next thing they hear, you're in geneva and your hair's doing something new. it always does something new when you're in geneva.

teterboro if you have the car. jfk if you have the mood stabilisers. laguardia if you lost a bet. commercial or charter. it doesn't matter as long as you behave like your father's plane was just in maintenance and you're coping. you do not complain. you gesture vaguely. you don't take photos in the lounge. you don't say "priority boarding." your phone is already on airplane mode. your driver put your bag through security. you're holding a black coffee and a boarding pass tucked into an envelope from le sirenuse. you forgot your charger. you remembered your eyebrow serum. you don't sleep on flights. you pretend you don't know how.

airport outfit :

cashmere jumper. the same one you wore to your eighth birthday. still fits. still smells like almond soap. or a bit like your mum's perfume when she used to hug you goodbye.

cream trousers. lint rolled. slight stain from pistachio gelato in venice. you don't notice. or care. you only notice if someone else tries to comment.

rimowa carry-on. no stickers. only initials. silver. dented. ancient. perfect. it's been with you since ibiza 2016 and it holds grudges.

passport cover is leather. no logos. no pink. initials or nothing. it was a christmas gift from someone who now only communicates via monaco lawyers. you've started keeping a pressed flower inside it.

headphones are big. they don't even connect to your phone anymore. you carry a dongle. your driver hates the dongle. you lost one of the earpads and found it in your mother's glove compartment. they creak when you adjust them. they're a personality trait now.

optional add-ons :

box of clementines for the plane (you eat none), but you drink a lot

tiny stuffed animal that lives in the front pocket (you do not explain it)

old envelope with customs forms you never filled out

prescription sunglasses that only work in theory

hotel slippers you keep stealing "by accident"

inside the rimowa :

three paperbacks. one by simone weil. one by joan didion. one you never actually read. sometimes it's the ethics of ambiguity, sometimes it's franny and zooey, sometimes it's a paperback copy of the bell jar with your notes in red pen. one of them is in italian. you don't speak italian.

an extra white shirt. a pharmacy bag from france. a lint roller you don't use. travel candles you got as a gift and pretend to hate. your skincare fits in a pouch labelled "derm." eye mask from a spa you didn't enjoy. your mother's pearl earrings in a sock. an open pack of gum you've had since zurich. emergency earrings. letters you never sent.

summers :

sagaponack = you call it "the house." not "the hamptons." not "our place." it's the house. the lawn is mowed by someone you've known since you were five. your bedroom still has the wallpaper you picked in 2009. the shower smells like aveda. you bring two friends. you forget one of them on the ferry. someone's cousin always shows up with a guitar. you steal peaches from the kitchen and eat them standing over the sink. someone brings up boarding school. someone cries in the linen closet. someone's mother flies in from stockholm and gets mad you used her shampoo.

capri = your godmother lives there. your mum has a chair on the piazzetta. the boat is moored in the wrong spot and you know it because the neighbours texted. you eat fruit with a knife. you tan on stone. you call the waiter by name. your sandals are leather and broken. you get a rash from the hotel's pool towels and blame climate change. the lemons are too big. the espresso is always burnt. you fall in love with a waiter named marco who disappears the next morning. your mom pretends not to notice. you write down his name on the back of a postcard and forget which book you hid it in.

east hampton = acceptable only if your grandparents bought before 1980 or your cousin is on the zoning board. otherwise no.

montauk = only if you inherited a property with a bad roof and a wine cellar. or you're having a crisis and need to be ignored.

south of france = acceptable. avoid cannes unless you're on a yacht or being paid. you stay in provence, not antibes. you bring books and forget sunscreen. your uncle knows the vineyard owners.

italy = always a yes but never rome in june unless you're doing latin summer at the vatican or on some kind of bureaucratic punishment. florence if your brother is with you. venice if you're meeting someone's parents. sardinia if your friend's dad is on a boat.

winters :

switzerland = you ski. obviously. your boots were custom-moulded in geneva. you complain about the snow. you throw up at altitude. you do après in your ski trousers because your legs are too sore to change. your mother buys a painting you hate. your brother drinks half a bottle of grappa. someone cries in the sauna. it's never you. your instructor is mean and british and calls you “miss” and you have a crush on him for three years. you pretend not to know how to put your gloves on. you get a nosebleed. you flirt while bleeding. you fall asleep next to a fireplace that doesn't work.

maldives = your father booked it. you weren't consulted. the villa has no wifi. you reread death in venice. you cry because you got too tan. you take pictures you don't post. the staff speak four languages. you pretend to speak five. you get bored. you tan again. you find a crab and name it after your boyfriend. you order room service and pretend it's a tasting menu. you fall asleep during a massage and wake up alone and confused and covered in oil. you swim in the rain. it's freezing. you pretend it's not. you write a poem in your notes app and delete it the next morning. your mother asks if you're okay. you say you're cold. she gives you her scarf.

austria = underrated. real power girls know how to ski and speak german. you go for christmas, say you're visiting your cousin, come back with a new necklace and a changed perspective on the monarchy.

the bahamas = only if it's someone else's island. it doesn't count if you paid for the villa. must be family-invited or romantically-involved. you can only post photos from the plane.

los angeles = no. never. not even for premieres. if you must go, tell people it was layover-induced.

spring and fall :

japan = if you've got art world parents or you're visiting someone who's getting married in kyoto. no cherry blossom photos. no public commentary on sushi.

berlin = you pretend you hate it. you secretly love it.

morocco = if your aunt is weird and rich and doing her doctorate on colonial textiles. you bring too many skirts. you forget to charge your kindle. you have mint tea and say you needed this.

oxford = if your older brother is graduating or if you've just gotten over someone named milo. you wander into blackwell's and pretend not to care. you buy four books you won't read.

paris = only if you're registered for something. a language program. a dance intensive. an unpaid internship your mother arranged. not for fun. for improvement.

barcelona = because we love barcelona.

back to the city by october. you don't miss halloween. or midterms.

how to behave in other countries :

be polite. be bored. be quiet.

never speak more than three words of the local language unless you're fluent.

tip in cash. smile with your teeth. never say thank you too much. looks weird.

buy one souvenir. it must be heavy and inconvenient. your dad must sigh when he sees it.

no guidebooks. you do not read tripadvisor. you text your auntie who once dated warhol and ask for the name of her favourite trattoria in milan. she replies with a fax number. you go anyway. it's closed. you end up at a restaurant that doesn't have a name, just a doorbell. you eat alone. it's incredible. you say nothing about it online. you keep the receipt. you tape it into your notebook. you show no one.

bonus behaviours :

be a mystery. leave before the bill. carry receipts in other currencies. pretend your tan is genetic.

tell customs you were visiting family even if you weren't.

lie about your return date.

pack snacks you never eat.

send one postcard and never mail it.

pretend not to know the timezone. check the time every ten minutes anyway.

key principle : you can go anywhere, but you don't arrive. you're simply present. for now. the trick isn't leaving. it's acting like you never did. you went somewhere, but you never went away.......you know what i mean? anyways ok bye

#fame dr #better cr

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